Free The Girl Who Broke the Rules by Marnie Riches

missing someone close to them. If there is anybody out there that can help or who thinks they might have witnessed the abduction of or attack on women who resemble these sketches, call the hotline in confidence.’
    Iwan watched the live press conference on NPO’s breakfast news bulletin, as he sawed open a crusty bun with the sharp bread knife. Into the soft, doughy innards of the cob he stuffed several slices of kielbasa and cheese. But his girl had bought him that cheap shit sausage from Lidl and the cheese was Dutch. It looked right but didn’t smell right. Nevertheless, with large unthinking bites, swilled down with strong coffee, he manfully made short shrift of the first disappointing meal of the day. That he got the food to stay down at all with such a stinking hangover was a miracle. It had been a good night – early on, at Stefan’s, drinking Tyskie and playing cards. Then, later on…better still.
    ‘The boys are outside,’ Krystyna shouted from the kitchen.
    The honking horn of the van signified that it was time to get to work. 6.57am. By lunchtime, he should feel fine. He picked his plate and cup up from the scarred pine table and swapped it for the lunch bag that Krystyna gave him. Grabbed her slender frame around the waist and pulled her close for a kiss.
    ‘Get off! You stink!’ she said, giggling. ‘Go and work the beer off. Go on! You’ll be late.’

    Engine running, outside.
    ‘Come on, Iwan!’ Stefan said, leaning nonchalantly out of the driver’s window. ‘Get a bloody move on, you pussy.’
    He lit a cigarette but was forced to flick it out the window half-smoked because the pitch and roll of the van, with its sagging suspension, made him seasick.
    ‘You’re green!’ Michal said. ‘And you ducked out early! Lightweight!’
    Iwan just puffed out his cheeks in response. Wiped away the cold sweat on his face. Stared blankly out of the window, as shabby, 1970s apartment blocks on the poor outskirts of town gave way to grand red- and grey-brick buildings – some converted into elegant apartments, some still four-storey family homes for the very rich. Here, the streets were tree-lined, with chi-chi delis and boutiques on every corner. He was working. He was earning. Life was good. It was just a hangover. He wouldn’t vomit. He was a man. Men didn’t vomit.
    The van pulled up in Valeriusstraat, outside the building site. Scaffolding encased the neglected façade, with its cantilevered bay window on the second storey and the balcony above. At the very top, on the fourth floor, the stepped gable bore down on them. He peered up at it and shuddered. Shook his head.
    ‘You’re such a superstitious old woman!’ Stefan said, punching his shoulder.
    ‘This place is haunted,’ Iwan said. ‘I’m telling you.’
    The gable window was dark, but his fevered imagination conjured up a ghost from the past eyeing him from above. Perhaps a Jew, sheltering from the Nazis. Maybe a sick or deformed child from Amsterdam’s glory days gazed down at him. Some merchant’s dirty secret, locked in the attic. Protruding from the gable was a beam with the hook on the end – so useful for hoisting materials up to the top floor. But Iwan imagined it was a witch’s finger, beckoning him up to the top, so he might plunge to his death.
    He crossed himself and followed his workmates inside.

    ‘We’re going to get you plastering out the top floor today,’ Stefan said. Laughing raucously.
    The others joined in. Iwan might have retorted with something witty, had he not felt like he was dying. All he could manage was a ‘Ha ha. Very funny.’
    ‘You think I’m joking?’
    ‘Stefan! Come on, man. No!’
    Stefan pointed to the giant sheaf of plasterboards that were stacked in the hallway. ‘Top floor. Board and skim by the end of the day. Take Pawel up there with you. He’ll fight the ghosts off.’
    Iwan groaned. Picked up his drill case from the cupboard under the stairs. Collected the bucket containing his